


hurricane drunk

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's the one your mother warned you about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hurricane drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine's Hurricane Drunk.

Her mother shouldn't have let her out of the house. She couldn't do anything, though, couldn't do anything but press her against her heart, whisper "be safe" and listen to her laughter resonate in her chest.

"Be careful," she said, brows furrowed.

"Ta," Harry answered – a smile curled up at the edge of her mouth.

Anne prayed something would take care of her now that she wasn't there – a star, the sky, or maybe a lone god, wandering aimless in the mortal turf, waiting for someone to bless.

*

She's the one your mother warned you about. She said,  _don't be that girl_  and  _don't fall for her_ , and maybe you didn't think that that girl had a mother too, a mother that warned against the boy in the leather jacket and the captain of the lacrosse team. You just saw her red red lips and her legs that went on for miles. You didn't think,  _innocence_. You thought,  _ravage_.

She's unfairly beautiful, all bouncy curls and short dresses fluttering around her thighs. She takes pleasure in the power she holds over everyone, too, drinks and laughs and plays at being the queen. She's not good, Harry, but it's okay, because she's never promised anyone she would be.

(It's her idea of freedom – being able to touch and feel and flutter. she doesn't believe in being safe. She believes in ignoring the warnings and being who she wants to be, even if it's not who she is).

The first time you see her it's at a party (of course it's at a party). She's sitting on some guy's lap, skirt bunched up. A flash of arousal shoots in your stomach, but you're too young, you're horny all the time, it doesn't really matter. You look at the outline of her lips, shiny with gloss and alcohol, and you let yourself be mesmerized.

 _It doesn't matter_ , you think, and you remember your mother, long hair and dark eyelashes, reading you the story about a red riding hood.

*

It all happens in first times, very slowly. There's the first time she smiles at you (that night, a shooting star smile, here for a second and then gone in a flash of gold), the first time she says your name (when Zayn introduces you at the cafeteria, Liam's severe face looming over you like a chaperon), the first time she says hers (her little hand slotter in yours, comfortable and just short of perfect).

You start thinking over when she's not here. You notice her in one of your lectures, chewing on the end of her pencils and absently running a hand in her curls. You watch her running to Zayn and laughing in her neck, melting in her arms. She's two years younger than you, a kid, really, but sometimes she looks at you very intently, eyelashes lowered, and she mouths something dirty and your brain goes blank. Then she laughs and laughs and laughs but you, you don't forget.

*

She's got this girl who looks after her. Harry doesn't seem to mind, isn't as rebelious as she seems (the truth is, she likes having someone whose arms she can fall into; she likes this love that is certain, safe, and she likes not working for it, not being afraid of losing it, the certainty of this devotion). Liam is a serious girl, a bit dull, brown eyes and chestnut hair.

She's a lesbian. She seems dry and sensible and not the type of girl Harry (or you, for that matter) would hang out with, her body on the sturdy side due to all the sports she does, handball and natation and tennis. The only time you see something in her that could spill is when her girlfriend, a blond, petite irish girl named Niall, slides her arms around her waist from behind and presses her cheek against hers – you can't help but smile. You catch Harry smiling too, and then you're smiling at each other. You look at Harry's teeth, enamel white white, wolfish grin.

There's Zayn, too. Zayn is dark-skinned and gorgeous, always painted up like a doll, and she watches over Harry too, in her own way, flashing teeth when someone wanders too close, flawlessly white. You're a bit afraid of her – the way she touches Harry like she's her queen makes you cringe.

You only have eyes for Harry, but she's everyone's, giving herself out so easily and it makes you choke, jealous and green and ugly. You want to hold her down and say  _don't move_ , growl and bite and fuck her to make it hurt, make her moan,  _I'm yours_ , but you're a good boy – you don't think about things like that.

Once someone gives her a lolly and she has a little skirt that flutters on her thighs. She jumps around in a failed attempt at ballet, but you're watching her lips stretch obscenely to take it all in. They're red and puffed when she lets the lolly slide out. She locks eyes with you and she does it again.

You run out of the room. You feel embarassed and angry but you can't help but listen as her laugh follows you in the corridor, sweet and cruel, so you can jerk off to it later, when the night is dark and you don't have to be good.

*

And maybe, maybe it turns into some sort of a twisted game, Harry trying to break your resolve and you trying to stick to it as she grinds down against you, twisting her hips like some sort of snake-charmer. But you're not a snake. you hate that she can be so manipulative when she has the face of an angel, eyes wide and so, so innocent. You always forget about everything she can do when you look into her eyes.

You escape and you drive to your mother's one afternoon in January. The sun is low and clinical on your skin. It wears you out, for some reason, and you have to pick up coffee so you don't fall asleep on your driving wheel. When you finally pull in the driveway, you breathe out a sigh of relief.

You collapse into your mother's arms.

She kisses you and feeds you and does your laundry, and lets you cuddle against her on the couch with a cup of tea and an odd tear hanging at the end of one of your eyelashes.

"You okay, babes?" she asks. (You know she wants to ask, but she doesn't.)

"Yeah," you say. You're okay.

"Is there… someone?"

 _She drives me crazy_ , you think, and then,  _I don't know why I resist_.

"No."

She sighs and turns the volume a bit lower, and you watch stupid reality TV until the inane chatter turns into a remote mumble, and you feel your eyelids drooping heavily, your stomach full with the pasta and the motherly affection. You sleep, no dreams of her.

*

Everyone wants her. People don't always  _like_ her, because she's not exactly likeable, more fascinating than nice, and they tend to watch from a distance with lust-filled eyes or confusion written all over their features. They wonder what she's thinking, and you want to say,  _there's nothing here_. You're not sure there isn't – you're just bitter and spiteful, young, despite everything.

She's not a cheerleader. She's not in any club, except a band outside school,  _White Eskimo_. Sometimes she talks about it excitedly, flailing her hands. The sun catches in her hair. You don't love her, but you want her so much it burns.

Every time you're at a party, she sits on your laps and squirms. She sends you those little grins she knows drives you crazy. (But you also see her when she's helpless, drunk off her ass and saying the same stupid shit, all grabbing hands clenched around air).

It's the same thing every time you look at her,  _wantwantwant_ coursing under your skin, the arousal, and you disgust yourself for wanting her, because you  _know_ , you know she would hurt you and she's not your type anyway, too fake, too vulgar, too loud…

You try to be good, but it's hard, and you're bitter. You feel like she's stripping you of something, and you don't know what, and you can't stop her. You watch her open her legs for everything that moves. She slurs 'I want to blow you in the bathroom' and you push her off you, gently, hands trailing on her upper arms. She laughs sweetly and disappears. When she comes out of the loo half an hour later, you try to pretend there aren't scars in the palm of your hands from when your nails dug in, thinking about her and  _someone else._

Harry Styles. Everybody is in love with her, and she struts down the corridor in tight pants and a transparent blouse, curls bouncing on her swan neck.

She looks at you, half-hidden in the shadows, looking at her, as usual, and she smiles, saying,  _I know_.

*

She's going to get you. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not this year, but she's going to get you someday, catch you unawares and press her lips against yours as you struggle to say something,  _anything_  that will make her go away.

You wonder how she will turn out, and you know what you want her to become, but you can't help but think  _beautifully_ , because there is something about her that the others won't let go to waste. You know it. Your mother calls you and she knows about Harry now, and she jokes about it. You maybe like Harry. It's not good. It feels bitter.

And even if you have her someday (but you won't have her, she'll have you), you'll only be one pearl on her necklace of lovers, the tiny sapphire between onyx-Zayn and opal-Liam that's she'll let fall into the river when she crosses the pond because she has too much gems her hands aren't enough to hold.  _Spoiled little girl,_ you think. (It's a mistake, but everything you do about her is).

And everytime you see her it's stronger, and it's not tonight but tonight you're at a party and it's formal wear but it doesn't change anything because she's in something light green, shimmering like a river against her body,  _fitting_  as it always does, as if it had been made for her.

She purrs in your ear, "Come dance."

You follow her on the dancefloor.

She's the the one your mother warned you about – she's going to get you, to catch you unawares and break your heart – you know it, but you don't pull away, press her against your body and let the music overwhelm you ( _tango_ , you register absently), so turned on you can't breathe. It's probably better – what would you say? 


End file.
